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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24746287">Spiderwebs and Interludes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessdel/pseuds/Del'>Del (goddessdel)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Banter, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, F/M, Great Hiatus, POV Irene Adler, Post-Reichenbach, Season/Series 02-03 Hiatus, Smut, Smut and Banter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:40:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,247</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24746287</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessdel/pseuds/Del</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>His fingers leave dark smudges against her skin.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Spiderwebs and Interludes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written: 12/18/17-6/7/20</p><p>Thanks to Natalie for the German-picking, Tali and rBioc for their thoughts, and Beverly for the motivation.</p><p>Shout out to Francesca Wayland because it was a fic I wrote for her (<a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/13252389">The quality of winter</a>) that first inspired this one.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His fingers leave dark smudges against her skin. She should be appalled - after all, she knows exactly where he's been - but Irene finds herself leaning into his touch, impatient beyond the point of caring.</p><p> </p><p>They shouldn't be here at all. They'd agreed that this was a terrible idea.</p><p> </p><p>Irene always did love to misbehave.</p><p> </p><p>It's foolish, though, even for her. Risking exposure and her <em>life </em>for a quick shag in the filthy back alley of a pathetic little pub in a forgotten little town.</p><p> </p><p>She never could resist him, though - not even when her life and livelihood depended on it. How was she supposed to resist their illicit trysts, right under the nose of Big Brother?</p><p> </p><p>"The spiderweb extends outside of Prague?"</p><p> </p><p>"Obviously." He pauses, beard scuffing across her neck along with his lips. "You were in Prague for a painting."</p><p> </p><p>She tilts her head infinitesimally to give him more access, her fingertips scraping down his sides. "Anyone could've stolen that."</p><p> </p><p>His hands slide roughly up her thighs, voice muffled against her collarbone. "Not without leaving clues."</p><p> </p><p>Her breath catches on a gasp as his fingers inch higher still. "Was that a compliment?"</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock lifts his head to smirk at her, darkened eyes sparkling with mirth. "Admitting that you stole it?"</p><p> </p><p>She doesn't pause in unbuttoning his trousers, matching his smirk easily. "Admitting that you were guessing?"</p><p> </p><p>He presses her back against the rough brick, one possessive hand trailing from her thigh to her breasts and back between her legs. "I never guess."</p><p> </p><p>Her derisive laugh is cut off by his lips, chapped and rough against hers, but still just as intoxicating as always.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock makes her head spin, even when she isn't busy calculating just how his little adventure in espionage is going by his unkempt beard or how she can count his ribs and their recent breaks from the way his breath hitches when she runs her hands down his sides.</p><p> </p><p>When his mouth dips to her chest, laving at the sweat already gathering in her clavicle, Irene shivers despite the heat and only just manages to keep her voice steady, "If you wanted someone to break four of your ribs, you could have just asked."</p><p> </p><p>She can feel his irritated sigh against her skin, though he doesn't deign to lift his head. "Three."</p><p> </p><p><em>Oh for goodness' sake.</em> She presses harder against the rib in question, careful not to damage it further, and Sherlock goes momentarily rigid against her. "Four."</p><p> </p><p>He nips her in what is likely meant to be reproach but just leaves her skin tingling. "It was a <em>fracture</em>. And they've healed." Sherlock cuts off Irene's protest before she can voice it. "Or must I prove it?"</p><p> </p><p>Before she can point out that he is clearly <em>far</em> from fully healed, protests aside, Sherlock shoves her dress over her hips and drops to his knees.</p><p> </p><p>His mouth closes over her sex and Irene throws her head back against the brick, biting back a curse at the sensation of his rough tongue against her exposed clit.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock chuckles, the sound reverberating against her as he indolently laps at her, teasing, as though they have all the time in the world instead of shagging behind a pub in broad daylight.</p><p> </p><p>The thought of getting caught with her dress over her hips and Sherlock between her legs only makes it more exciting, of course, which Sherlock unquestionably knows.</p><p> </p><p>She's wet already; has been since she first saw him, since they stumbled into this dirty alley, trading stolen kisses and exhilarating deductions. She's cross at how <em>obvious </em>her body makes her, even though she felt how rock hard Sherlock was when he pressed her up against this wall, can feel it in the desperate, needy way his fingers dig into her hips.</p><p> </p><p>Irene grabs fistfuls of his shaggy hair, urging him on.</p><p> </p><p>His beard still surprises and excites her, the way it drags across her sensitive skin as he devours her. He has an eidetic memory for what she likes and no compunction at all about exploiting the spots that make her squirm and moan.</p><p> </p><p>Irene bites her lip to keep quiet - she doesn't exactly fancy their evening being spoilt by a crowd of onlookers or the <em>policie</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock thrusts his tongue inside her, beard scraping and tingling across her skin, and Irene's nails dig into his scalp at the sensation, her body already coiled taut and her knees shaking in her Louboutins.</p><p> </p><p>He licks up to her clit, beard and teeth scraping, and sucks hard, and Irene falls apart embarrassingly fast, her thighs tight against his ears and her moan strangled against her lips.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock wipes an arm negligently across his face, his smirk visible in his eyes, and Irene nearly slides down the wall, knees unfairly weak. He catches her quickly, surging up to pin her there with his body.</p><p> </p><p>Hands still caught in his hair, Irene drags him closer to lick herself off of him, letting him taste the blood on her lips from stifling her scream.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock makes a ragged, desperate sound in his throat, hands grabbing at her arse to slide her roughly up the wall until he can press himself against her. Reaching between them, Irene shoves his trousers down and takes him, hard and throbbing, in hand.</p><p> </p><p>There's no hint of teasing in either of them anymore, not when Irene can feel her blood running hot, can feel him burning against her through their clothes until the sticky afternoon heat feels almost cool against her overheated skin.</p><p> </p><p>Irene wraps her legs around sharp hipbones and guides him inside her, her body still quivering from her orgasm.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock buries his head in her neck to hide moans that she can still feel rumbling against her skin with his teeth as he presses slowly and steadily into her, her body stretching and clinging to him.</p><p> </p><p>There're still for just a moment, taking in the sheer sensation of being together like this, of minds and bodies racing together and the rest of the world fading away, of the heat boiling and writhing between them, and then there's nothing they can do <em>but </em>move, hips sliding against each other in a reckless, slow dance.</p><p> </p><p>It's never quite chance and never quite on purpose, their illicit rendezvous.</p><p> </p><p>They always seem to find each other at the exact moment they most need… <em>something</em>, even if it's just to be <em>seen</em> as they truly are.</p><p> </p><p>Sex provides the thinnest veneer of pretense, a visceral manifestation of the need that drives them to seek one another out again and again, despite the danger and deception.</p><p> </p><p>The same need that leaves them clutching each other, gasping in the heat, bodies melting into one another again and again and <em>again</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Irene presses her mouth against his ear and lets his name slide over her lips like a caress; secret and forbidden. "Sherlock. Sherlock, <em>Sherlock</em>."</p><p> </p><p>She recognizes the way his self-imposed exile has eaten at him - the way living without one's name or home or <em>life</em> chips pieces away until it feels like there's nothing left.</p><p> </p><p>The dirt and disguise must wear at him, this man who wears his impeccably pressed clothing like armor, who sometimes forgets to sleep or eat but was always clean-shaven and freshly scrubbed.</p><p> </p><p>His hips stutter at the sound of his name, his breath speeding as a ragged groan tears its way from his throat. Sherlock presses them closer, his breath against her cheek. "<em>The</em> Woman. <em>Irene</em>."</p><p> </p><p>Her name and her title all on his lips - the ones she's never really shed but only hear in these stolen moments, with him. Irene shudders, arching against his strong arms and bony hips, their skin slick and sliding together, clothing bunched and damp between them. The brick of the wall scraping, tingling delightfully across her back with every rock of their hips, lips gasping against heated throats.</p><p> </p><p>His fingers dig into her arse, hitching her higher, shifting the angle, until every slide of their bodies leaves Irene gasping and biting her lips, one of her hands wrapped in his shaggy curls and the other digging her nails into his back.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock drags his beard across her clavicle, teeth nipping pinpricks of pleasure that spark at her bones as he pulls her body taut like the strings of his violin, finely tuned and quavering at his touch.</p><p> </p><p>Irene shudders above him, dragging his lips to hers to muffle her scream as she comes undone, grinding against him until Sherlock follows after her like a good boy.</p><p> </p><p>They slide down the wall together until Irene can rest shaky Louboutins against the uncertain stability of cobblestones, Sherlock slumped against her, chest heaving, held up only by the brick wall and her grip.</p><p> </p><p>Irene catches her own breath with him, skin hot and flushed, detangling the knots in his curls as they recover, still sweaty and sticky and disheveled in a back alley.</p><p> </p><p>They're a mess, and it'll be an utter nightmare to get to their lodgings without drawing attention to themselves live this. She ought to be cross. At herself - at him - at the desperate, weak <em>need</em> that drives them together like this.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, Irene feels alarmingly like she might laugh. There's a lightness in her chest that has nothing to do with the heat or Sherlock's weight resting against her - nor how much less he weighs than he once did, even fine boned and slim.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, Irene runs careful fingers down the tightly coiled muscles of his back, the thin cotton of his shirt damp with sweat and clinging to his skin. "And where might the next spoke of the spiderweb be?"</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock lifts his head from her shoulder, fumbling to do up his trousers even as he watches her with bright, interested eyes. Instead of answering, he shrugs, a hint of a smirk at his lips as he fishes a incongruously clean serviette from his pocket and offers it to her. "Where might the next painting be?"</p><p> </p><p>This time Irene does laugh. "It doesn't always have to be a painting."</p><p> </p><p>As she cleans the stickiness from between her thighs and tugs her dress down, Sherlock reaches out to steady her, the gesture so automatic, Irene's not even sure if Sherlock notices his hand on her waist. "Ah, admitting there was a painting?"</p><p> </p><p>Irene grins, "Never," and twists to undo her hair, undoubtedly hopelessly knotted from the brick and their exertions.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock's hand is immediately in her hair, smoothing through the tangles he never bothered with in his. Irene blinks, glancing up at him, but his expression is inscrutable. His fingers are not exactly gentle but they are efficient. Familiar, in a way that catches Irene's breath and makes her heart pound, heat dancing under her skin.</p><p> </p><p>She thinks that he likes messing her up and putting her back together like this, in these after moments, where they're both still too caught up in each other and exposed, their armor far from secure. She imagines he'll insist that it's purely practical - they can't stay here forever and, while he may look the part of a vagrant, she can hardly walk out in broad daylight looking well-shagged and vaguely destitute while wearing couture and five-hundred pound stilettos.</p><p> </p><p>It's just a moment, after all, and then Sherlock straightens and pulls back, running a hand ruefully through his curls and eyeing the mess they've made of her with barely disguised amusement. "Pity. I hear the Österreichische Galerie has quite a selection of art on display."</p><p> </p><p>Vienna then. Or somewhere close enough. Bratislava, perhaps. The Klimt Jubilee exhibition will be ending soon, if she recalls. "Why, do you fancy <em>Der Kuss</em>?"</p><p> </p><p><em>The Kiss</em>. A kiss. How apropos.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock's eyes drop to her lips, but his face betrays nothing. "Actually, I prefer Hundertwasser over Klimt."</p><p> </p><p>The next exhibition on, certainly. A window of timing, between his spiderweb and her extracurriculars. "Ah, 'The Big Way', then." Irene rescues her handbag from the cobblestones and withdraws her compact mirror. Watches him over its rim and muses, "Rather well-guarded, don't you think?" As she confirms that her makeup is still in place and that her hair - regrettably but unavoidably blonde – covers the marks lingering across her neck and collar bones.</p><p> </p><p>He's watching her closely, something mischievous in the quirk of his lips. "Is that a problem?"</p><p> </p><p>Irene snaps the mirror shut and lets her lips curve into her most wicked smile. "A challenge."</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock grins back at her, collecting his threadbare coat from the cobbles and donning it as though it were his Belstaff. He shoulders a shabby but sturdy pack that looks deceptively heavy - something to do with his most recent spider, no doubt. He's still himself, here, with her, standing ramrod straight under his ratty clothes and watching her with sharp, clear eyes under unkempt curls.</p><p> </p><p>A challenge, indeed.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock inclines his head, stepping back into the alley. "<em>Bis zum Abendessen, Frau</em>." <em>Until dinner, Woman.</em></p><p> </p><p>Just before he reaches the street, he turns back to her with a cheeky wink that is all <em>Sherlock Holmes</em>. Then he folds in on himself, slouching into a homeless persona that swallows Sherlock whole until there's not a trace of the man who shagged her up against a brick wall in broad daylight.</p><p> </p><p>Leaning against that dirty brick wall, bathed in incongruous sunshine, Irene watches him disappear, her thoughts already racing ahead to Vienna and Hundertwasser, spiderwebs and paintings.</p><p> </p><p>There are dark fingerprints on the once pristine white of her dress.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The Klimt Jubilee was actually on in Vienna in the summer of 2012. You can look up details of that exhibition and the following Hundertwasser exhibit if you're interested in past art exhibitions. Yes, I did too much research for a passing reference. No, I'm not sorry.</p><p>All the German is translated immediately after use:<br/>Der Kiss = The Kiss<br/>Bis zum Abendessen, Frau = Until dinner, Woman</p></blockquote></div></div>
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